


MCYT Oneshots (Mix of Cannon Compliant and Headcannons)

by IHateThisWebsite06



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blaze Hybrid Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Minor Violence, One Shot, Other, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHateThisWebsite06/pseuds/IHateThisWebsite06
Summary: A couple oneshots of the SMP Crew including thus far:- The end of the L'manburg Independence War- Tommy Innit Exile Arc Angst- Ghostbur Angst- Wilbur insanity arc, Tommy POV- Punz Final battle angst and POV- Lonely Blaze Hybrid Sapnap (Karlnapity Angst)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Luke | Punz & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Kudos: 10





	1. MASKED SUICIDE

MASKED SUICIDE  
Why? Why had the timeline turned out like this? What turn of events had resulted in this strange and bizarre and utterly, utterly, awful circumstance. Why was the dread, and hopelessness, and the stinging feeling of abandonment coiled in the base of his stomach? 

The feeling of heat on Tommy’s face brought him about to the real world, rather than the cycle of thoughts that he’d been stuck in for the past couple days. His brain was a broken record. He simply couldn’t get past nor accept the fact that L’manburg could no longer be classified as his home. Especially after everything he’d been through for it. 

Lava bubbled twenty stories beneath his feet. But unlike usually, the heat wasn’t annoying. The simple existence of this substance wasn’t grinding on his gears, putting him on edge. Instead it presented a third option from the two he’d been offered. A third, much less painful option.

Option one was to live out his life in isolation. His mind would slowly deteriorate into madness, decayed by the consistent loneliness grating on the ever thinning resolve he’d built up throughout the trials and tribulations of war. Live out his life away from friends, chosen family, no way to retrieve his coveted disks, and the threat of execution hanging over his head should he ever attempt to return. Death by the hand of old age and insanity, or by the man in the mask who was at fault for all of this.

Option two was to attempt to negotiate his return, ultimately fail, and resort back to option one. (Option two would end up in accusations of undermining the authority of his (past) president, but how was he supposed to avoid that? Tubbo was his best friend forever. The thought that Tubbo held a place of power over him was bizarre and seemingly unfathomable. But Tubbo wasn’t his best friend anymore.)

The lava served him a third option on a silver platter. Suicide. The thought settled cement in his stomach and burned the back of his eyes, turning his vision white hot. His preffreals stung. Perhaps this was the best of the three, for everyone. After all, Wilbur was dead having died a traitor, Techno was somewhere in the wilderness after committing the mass murder of him and his supposed friends, and Tubbo was the cause of his exile. The three most important people in the world to him, every single one of them had abandoned him. Tubbo had abandoned him. Tubbo had told him that he caused problems. Tubbo said he put his beloved country in jeopardy. Tubbo chose his country over him. And Tommy was beginning to think that he was right.

A crystal clear image of Tommy’s own body descending elegantly through the stuffy, smokey nether air flashed through his mind. His hair moving due to the air resistance, arms limp, eyes closed and the will to fight for his life drained out of him. Then he’d hit the surface and sink under. Would it burn at first? Would he scream? Would he fight for the remains of his life? Or would his body surrender in just the same way that his mind had long ago?

That wasn’t really the thing that mattered though. What mattered was maybe Tubbo would finally be happy. Maybe he’d feel relief that he would no longer have to deal with Tommy’s impulsive actions. No longer have to deal with Tommy.

His hands were in his hair, tugging at the roots as a sound of anguish bubbled up in his throat. Tommy’s chest was a cavern, cold and empty. Tubbo was better off without him. Everyone was better off without him. Tommy crouched, feeling the heat on his face, wondering how much hotter it would have to get until he felt something. Until his skin would blister. Until he would break. Maybe he should test it out. 

Tommy’s entire body was tensed like a spring board, ready to jolt forward and free the world from his existence.

A hand fell on his shoulder. 

“Tommy no.” Of course it was Dream. Tommy shifted away, shaking the calloused hand off his body. “It’s not your time to die.” No. Of course it wasn’t. His miserable life wasn’t over, his selfish acts weren’t finished punishing him, and besides that, his suicide would make everyone feel guilty. He would need to stage his death.

“It never is.” Tommy replied bitterly, venom lashing off his tongue as he glared as the masked menace that has forced him into this situation. Why wasn’t it? Why couldn’t it be. Why did he care? Why?


	2. DOUSED FLAME, FLICKERING BACK TO LIFE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghostbur dealing with being in the world of living, the mistakes of his past, and the lingering feelings connected to events that he no longer remembers.

DOUSED FLAME, FLICKERING BACK TO LIFE  
Ghostbur thought that perhaps people were angry because they were afraid to be sad. He thought that they curled their hands into fists around weaponry to hold back heavy, stinging, bloody tears. After all, everyone on the SMP had suffered. Sure Ghostbur didn’t remember most of it (he’d most likely caused it after all) but that didn’t mean that it never happened. Every person had been webbed with scars and cracks in their skin, like broken pottery that’d been healed by gold. Even Niki, the kindest soul in Ghostburs memory. Her porcelain skin marred with the remains of Schlatts abuse, broken glass and burns along her hands. But Niki wasn’t afraid to cry. Niki didn’t wring her scarred fingers around the neck of her bow, in fact, her bow had been largely retired to a dusty chest in the back of her bakery. Niki remained strong and resistant to pull of anger and to the intoxicating promise of revenge.

Ghostbur tried to be like Niki. Ghostbur wished it came easier. Sometimes he wondered if he were any better than the others. Sometimes Ghostbur felt the echo of satisfaction ring through his chest as he walked through the craters under L’manburg. He tried really hard to suppress this feeling, face burning with shame and feet dragging him back to the sewer in which he belonged.

Often, secretly, he would sit in the middle of the explosion and let the feelings wash over him, the bitter taste of an invisibility potion and guilt coating his taste buds. Because for some bizarre reason, Ghostbur couldn’t shake the feeling that what Wilbur’d done in life was right. But Ghostbur didn’t like to think about it.

He didn’t like to think about a lot of things, actually. He didn’t like to think about the ever leaking stab wound in his stomach, he didn’t like to think about the look on Niki's face when he waved at her (a mixture between fear, betrayal, and sadness) but above all, Ghostbur didn’t like to think about the past. 

So he didn't.

Instead he buried his face into the blue of Friends wool for exactly twenty eight seconds. Ten seconds to let go of the train of thought, eight seconds to ground himself, six seconds to find something happy to think about, and four seconds to work up the courage to lift his head.   
But sometimes this little ritual Ghostbur had with his sheep didn’t do much. Especially when Ghostbur thought that people were mad at him. Fundy was mad at him. Tommy was mad at him. Tubbo seemed to have resigned to diluted resentment, and Ghostbur didn’t even know if Technoblade knew (or cared) that he’d died. It was difficult to live with the actions of your life when you didn’t even remember them. And difficult to hold yourself accountable. Especially when old feelings liked to rise to the surface unexpectedly.

And so, with pockets full of blue, Ghostbur tried to move on. He wasn’t Wilbur. Not anymore. And he wouldn’t be again. He didn’t like Wilbur in the slightest and he wanted to rip the parts of Wilbur out of his chest with his own fingernails. To claw at him until Ghostburs hands were coated in blood and near unrecognizable. He didn’t want to look like him, sound like him, or even remotely act like him. He wanted to make people happy. And with Wilburs face plastered as his own, that seemed damn near impossible. But he’d sure as hell try.


	3. WILBUR'S UNFINISHED SYMPHONY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur Soot's fall from grace from the point of view of his younger brother Tommy.   
> (TW: mentions of obsessive behavior and suicide/begging for death)

WILBURS UNFINISHED SYMPHONY   
Tommy had a difficult time living encased in stone. The walls of the ravine seemed to replicate the walls of a grave, slowly getting higher and higher, tighter and tighter and squeezing every last bit of breath out of his lungs. He hated the uniform ragged stone and the flickering lanterns and the jarring shadows they cast across his brother's face. 

But he put up with it all. The pressure in his chest as he slowly descended into the earth on the railing less, crude, staircase that led to their base. He put up with it because he needed to take back everything he had earned, what he was entitled to. He put up with it because he hadn’t quite finished fighting for it. But mostly he put up with it for his brother. 

And of course, Tommy wouldn’t admit it, but he missed Wilbur. He missed his sure gaze and messy swept hair pressed underneath a tricorn hat. He missed the surefire colloquy that he always seemed to lash together and his wide, confident stance. He missed his long fingers messing up his hair, and pulling Tommy into a headlock. He missed his brother.

But Wilbur wasn’t… Wilbur anymore. Or, at least not the Wilbur he used to be. He was a simple shell of a human being, fire behind his eyes doused and usually messy hair pressed flat beneath a black beanie. He was a quiet demon with the empty eyes that resembled Tommy’s old Wilbur. His usually transient gaze and fidgeting fingers rested loosely on the grey sea of stone. He had become empty, sitting in his portion of the cave, sharpening his sword over and over until the edge was paper thin and broke. Then he started over emotionless. He was quiet, stuck in his head, even his footsteps seemed to be muffled. 

Wilbur’s fire had been doused by the betrayal of his horned counterpart, fizzled out. He ran purely on the embers of revenge. As much as Tommy worried, and knew it was a bad idea to enable his brothers newfound self destructive tendencies, he couldn’t help but give in when Wilbur’s eyes flashed. They flashed for a second with his old flame. Or perhaps they flashed with something else, something Tommy pointedly ignored. Maybe they flashed with obsession. 

Yes, Wilbur had become obsessed with Schlatt. Another character with sesquicentennial, lavish speeches, the only character who had beaten him at his own game.

He was obsessed with the square shouldered, goat hybrid, coaxing Tubbo into spilling all of his secrets despite the fact that it might’ve been a breach in the kids own safety. But Tommy hadn’t stepped in. Wilbur had become paranoid and disagreeing with him on any front tended to bring about a tornado of delusions entailing the betrayal of those around him. 

His steadily growing megalomania was another source of worry that Tommy ignored. He put it down to leading, giving out jobs for Tommy to do in order to keep him busy. He pointedly looked away from the manic satisfaction that gleaned his brothers features when Tommy did one of the assigned tasks. The hunger that overtook his posture when someone challenged him. He needed control. And control had slipped through his fingers.

And so, Tommy was not surprised when the Plan was brought up for the first time. Laying TNT beneath his old passion project was something Old Wilbur would never even dream of, but the New Wilbur was starving, grasping for any form of leverage he could find. What had surprised him, though, was the fact that he was willing to put himself into debt with their once biggest enemy. 

Although Dream had never outright demanded it, it was quite obvious that he wanted some sort of payment for the eleven and a half stacks of dynamite that he had supplied Pogtopia. Something that paid more than just chaos. Something more than a giant hole where Manburg had once stood. Although, Tommy supposed, Wilbur had never intended to pay him back. 

Tommy wasn’t even exactly surprised when Wilbur had blown up L’manburg after they had agreed against it. He wasn’t surprised, no, he was hurt. He was betrayed. Wilbur had lied to him, Wilbur had looked him in the eye, granted him Presidency with the intent of tearing the country to pieces. Of blowing it to smithereens with a debt that he would leave for Tommy to pay. 

Of course, when Tommy had given the presidency back to Wilbur he couldn’t keep it. He had never had the intention of saving L’manburg. He had never had any intention to refrain from pressing that button. And so he passed the presidency off to someone who would hurt Tommy just as much. Tubbo. As if Tubbo hadn’t been hurt enough because of Wilbur, unintentionally hurting Tommy. 

Tommy was done believing his brother was good. He was done believing that his brother would come back after they took back what was supposed to be theirs, he was done excusing, forgiving Wilbur for things he didn’t deserve. Done defending him when he had never even had the willpower to defend himself.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less as he watched his father’s sword stab through Wilbur’s gut. When Philza gave Wilbur the out he so desperately craved. When Philza had forced the people to grieve a horrible, horrible, irredeemable man, mentally ill or not. 

It didn’t sting, losing the insane man who plagued his thoughts and coated everything surrounding him in blood, the man who painted the sky in orange and grey smoke, the man who had given up. No it stung losing the lover, the fighter, the Old Wilbur. The man who had a son, who used to have a Wife, the man who had a brother. The man who had seen an injustice in the world and fought to correct it. The man who had fought against corruption and ended up becoming corrupted himself. 

Although Tommy mused, Old Wilbur had been dead long before his death. That man had died with the birth of an idea. The idea of a rigged election. The idea of a power scheme.   
It began as a rigged election, and ended in an insane, abandoned man begging for his life to be taken away, leaving an unpaid debt in his wake.


	4. A DECISION TO MAKE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punz's inner monologue when deciding weather or not to help Tommy, and his thoughts about another particular blonde who Tommy reminds him of a little too much.   
> (TW: mention of alcohol, disassociation, Killing and other violence, and mercenary's(?))

A DECISION TO MAKE  
Punz didn’t take sides, nor develop opinions, much less grow attachments to anyone. He was a mercenary. It was in his job description. So why was he here? Staring at the now empty chest, once holding heaps of riches that hadn’t neared enough. It was a fraction of what Dream had access to. It was a thousandth of what should’ve been needed to buy him over. 

He had served Dream for so long, his paid right hand man, that their relationship held some semblance of a fucked up form of fragile loyalty. He was used to following Dreams orders and returning home at the end of the day to a plentiful form of payment on his doorstep. It was natural, normal, easy. But the money never left his mind and he'd never be able to convince himself that what he was doing was out of the goodness of his heart. He’d never been able to see Dream as a friend, only employer. No, less than that. An ATM. Simple money machine, a quest to fulfill. 

He was a greedy man, loyal to the money, and Tommy stood no chance against the sheer amount Dream could offer. But the fact that he’d tried seemed to be valuable enough within itself. 

The attempt should’ve been futile, like a small thread of a pulse spluttering out beneath his fingers. The fact that the pulse was still there kept the body alive. Tommy was hopeless, desperate, grasping for a needle in the world's largest haystack. Punz held the key, the magnet, the answer. But was his price too high for the poor sixteen year old to handle?

He threaded his fingers through his hair, tossing the hood and netherite helmet off his head. They fell to the wooden floor in a clatter. Punz winced. He had no morals. Another thing in the job description. He couldn’t, refused to have enough self identity to to structure a moral code. It made it easier to sleep at night, separating himself from his brain. He pushed away questioning thoughts, turned his victims into targets, not people. A mannequin with a motor, a voice box programmed to scream for help. A training simulation. These were the things he forced himself to do in order to survive. This was what he was good at. Things that should’ve scarred him.

Assignments like this should be separated. So why did it seem like a thorn weaving its way into his major arteries, the pulsing muscle in the center of his hollow chest?

Every rule that he’d followed, wall that he'd built, the very roof he lived under, all crumpled away like sand in the wind at the former contents of this chest. A few golden blocks and netherite ingots tempting the very structure that his life had been built upon. A kid with a lanky figure and blonde hair throwing his very existence into the balance with one decision. With a desperate, dying plea.

Punz heaved a sigh. He had a decision to make. And either way, nothing on this hell of a server would ever be the same. 

~

Punz was weak. Yet another teenage kid had walked into his life and demanded something of him, payment short and eyes wide, and he had been unable to refuse. A request that should’ve never crossed their minds at such an age. 

Help me. Teach me. Make me like you. Let me survive.

The first request had been easy to accept, the kid having been tagging along long enough for Punz to know that this kid would be going into his field whether or not he had proper training, whether or not it was safe. And damn his supposed lack of moral code, he would in no way let this kid walk into his first job untrained. 

Luckily, Purpled was a quick learner. Unlucky, Punz was equally as quick to grow an attachment. Purpled was like a younger brother, annoying, loud, and unfairly endearing. He broke down walls that had been up for so long Punz hadn’t realized they existed. When his first job rolled around it was a jolt of reality, shaking sense into the older, causing him to remember the reason he’d met Purpled in the first place.

He was ready and trained, and far too eager for his first job. Punz felt cement settling in his stomach, knowing the glowing expression that dusted the younger's cheeks would morph into scars and a stony dissociation soon enough. He was looking into a mirror of the past. He should’ve tried harder to dissuade this career path. He should’ve said something. 

But he bit his tongue and straightened Purpled’s armor straps, wishing him luck. The younger wordlessly pulled him into a hug, pulling away too quick, too much spring in his step, too much of Punz’s heart unknowingly stored away in his inventory. That night was the first time Punz had cried himself to sleep in a very long time. 

The next time he would see Purpled, he’d be hardly recognizable. Perhaps a bit of resentment on his face as he settled onto a stool next to Punz, still too young for this field, still too naive to quit. And when he’d offer to buy Punz a drink, well that was the second night he cried himself to sleep. 

Help me. Protect me. Betray him.

The second request had required more persuasion, none of which had come from the asking party, all of which internal battle reminding him of what had happened the last time he’d helped someone, a very similar someone at that. But in the end, Tommy had reminded Punz a little too much of what Purpled used to be for him to refuse. Just as light, the same glow dusting his cheeks (although a little dulled from his days of war and exile) and the very same spring to his step.   
Once again the payment had been something akin to pitiful, akin to nothing. Once again Punz had known his answer from the moment it’d been presented to him. Punz was weak, and Tommy was in danger, and Punz was never able to say no. 

And so here he was, entering the nether portal, hastily suited up in netherite, and utterly unprepared for the sight he’d be assaulted with. 

A crying Tommy, resolved Tubbo, and Dream, grinning far too wide and far too sinister to be human. And as his eyes scanned over the shock littering the trio’s faces (two of which tear-stained) a quiet rage he hadn’t felt sense forever simmered in his pulse. 

“You should’ve paid me more, Dream.”

The one line he’d delivered in a simple deadpan, sword resting carelessly over his shoulder, refusing to convey the emotions bubbling beneath his skin, refusing to allow Dream the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart and promising that to his last breath, he would plant Dream in the prison himself. 

And he had. And while it had done nothing to reduce the anger in his bones, the thing that had was the slump to Tommy’s shoulder as he hugged his best friend, his brother. The thing that had was his mental promise that he would protect Tommy from afar. The promise that he would be what Wilbur should have been. The resolve that Tommy would never be abused again. 

The conversation that he and Tommy had days later would nearly bring Punz to tears. And then later that night (Well, early morning really) it would. 

Two boys, far too similar in nature, far too similar in situation, both turned to Punz for help and both had unknowingly wormed their way into his not so stony heart.


	5. THE AFTERMATH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of battle of L'manburg's Independence and Tommy's thoughts when giving Dream his discs. Featuring the bittersweet smell of gunpowder and blood seeping into the soil.   
> (TW: War, Betrayal(?))
> 
> (PS: this is the worst and longest of them all, if you want to skip, I promise they get better :))

THE AFTERMATH  
A bitter smell seemed to fill the air after the battle. And though the blood was heavy and sickly sweet, the smell was sour, and seemed to turn the Militias hearts to lead. In through the nose, and down to sit in their stomach like cement. Every heartbeat could be heard in the rushing of the Men’s ears, sporadic enough to be mistaken as elation, excitement, or adrenaline. But there was something cold about the way it gripped their stomach, something weighted about the way it stiffened their limbs, and something frigid in their eyes, glazed over with sleep deprivation and urgency. An urgency in the crunching of muddy, black boots in a line. An urgency in the clump that they’d formed, all sense of organization forgotten in the chaos of fighting. Or perhaps it had been traded for something more tangible. Togetherness.

There was togetherness in the way that the men slapped each other on the back, or glanced at the others in worry, should they fall behind. And a certain togetherness in the way they fell behind their leader. Even in the disorganized mob, the men looked up to him, relied on him, and trusted him. Despite the cement in their stomachs and the solemn silence that weighed them down.

General Wilbur Soot was a trustworthy man after all. You could see it in the square of his shoulders, and the glint of his eye. But most who knew General Soot, knew that he was more than a trusty man, for he was a man of his word. A man of many words. He possessed a certain talent in lashing together the sharpest of quips with his silver tongue. And upon this he relied so heavily, that he'd created a revolution to repel from a country that hadn’t valued his colloquy, and instead favored brute strength.

General Soot peered back at his men, something sweet glinting in the apple of his eye. Though there was plenty that could be said, there was nothing that was needed. The unspoken message in the air bonded the Militia. Dream had been a fool to ever challenge the men, for under the pressure they had bonded to more than an army, something more like brothers. 

He shifted his gaze to his son. Pride grazed his lips as they turned upwards in the dewy morning light. His little boy, all grown up in his revolutionary uniform. But in the experience, Fundy had become much more than just the General’s son. He was an asset to the team, with just as sharp a mind as Wilbur had a tongue. He was quick to think, and quick to follow. Both of which made him an excellent soldier. 

Fundy fiddled with the brass buttons on his blue coat as they walked. Somehow, it helped him think. The cold metal twisted between his long, thin fingers. Fingers that were never made to fire a gun. Hands that were now stained with the irredeemable acts of war. And no matter the cause, he would always be tainted by the treatrous acts that he had been both subjected to, and been forced to execute. Over and over the scenarios ran through his head, trapped forever in a game of cat and mouse. And although he wished, and hoped, and pondered, he simply could not conjure a better way. There was no other way. They were between a rock and a hard place, so to speak.

A hand brushed against Fundy’s shoulder tentatively. His fingers relaxed around the brass button, and he peered up at the other soldier through his messy hair. The younger boy, Tubbo he was called, smiled tentatively at him. Fundy nodded to the unspoken question.

Only Tubbo could conjure the will to smile at a time like this. Only Tubbo could look at the struggling men and pull himself together enough to ensure the stability of the others. Tubbo stared at the dried blood on his fingernail, holding his hands far from his face, for they smelled like chemicals. Somehow, he blamed himself. Guilt jolted through him like a lightning bolt. All those hours of preparation for that moment, all thrown away in a matter of seconds. Maybe if he hadn't been defeated Tommy would still be there, maybe if he had noticed the signs sooner, Eret would be too. Maybe- he cut off the negative thoughts. This was Dreams' fault. Not his. He curled his calloused fingers into fists. It was Dream who’d declared war, Dream who’d shot Tommy, Dream who’d turned Eret. A pang ran through Tubbo at the thought of the missing person, his arm feeling cold in the absence of their most fiery member.

The member in question was not as far from the group as they assumed. In fact, if they peered into the distance, they’d be able to see his silhouette on the skyline. He sat on the edge of the hill. The destroyed Embassy to his back, and the empty Jukebox in front of him. He leaned against the empty machine, peering to the horizon as the sun rose behind him. He could see his shadow cast along the ground, his hunched and lengthened silhouette projected twenty or so feet below. He hugged his knee to his chest. Memories flashed before his eyes as he averted his gaze from the shadow, to the smoking pile of remains. 

Things were desperate. They were desperate. Grasping at straws in the grass when they needed a hay bale. The war had gone south. Even after all of Tubbo and Eret’s preparations, it wasn't enough. Dream had money, and brute strength. Wilbur had said that all they needed was their words, but what were they to do when the others wouldn’t listen?

People do strange things when they are desperate. The men wanted to believe that Eret had prepared a secret weapon that would save them and defend their cause. They wanted to believe that there was a chance. And so, Eret had done little persuading to convince the Militia to return to the L’manburg walls.

“Guys, I have something to show you in L’manburg,” He’d drawled lowly. His eyes were glowing with sinister light, but the others were blinded by trust.

“What, Eret. What is it?” General Soot had questioned. He had asked the men for all of their preparations before the fighting had broken out, and Eret hiding something from him could very well have turned the tide of the war for the worst. But this was Eret, and so he let it slide.

“I’ll show you, once we get to L’manburg.” And so the men had followed behind him, all five in a line. Hope and adrenaline created a toxic mixture in the corners of their minds. A mixture that clouded their judgement and quickened the heartbeat. The men were elated by the potential of victory, even the thought of a secret weapon brought about more happiness than as due.

More casualties too. The men had followed Eret, down the secret stone tunnel, down the crudely cut steps. And into the final control room. The final stand. The last place all of L’manburg would stand together, as a team. Tommy could still see the light leaking out from behind Eret’s sunglasses as he spoke the words that would tear his heart to shreds.

“Down with the revolution boys, It was never meant to be.” And then...an ambush.

In front of his house was where the trade’d happened. He could almost see Dream stooping down to enter his home, to see Tommy pull the coveted disks from his Ender Chest. He could hear what Dream said next,

“Both the disks? That is an...interesting deal,” he’d continued astonished. “How very selfless of you, Tommy.” Tommy had looked into the eyes of the man who had caused all of this. The man who had looked at everything that Willbur had created and rejected it, the man who had screamed that no mercy was in his soul for those who coveted freedom. The man who had slaughtered him. What did he know of selflessness? Tommy stared him in the eyes, and rejected his compliment. He was a part of something bigger than himself now. Tommy spat at the ground between Dreams’ netherite boots.

“It’s for L’manburg.” Between his fingers were the disks, and he thrust his hand out to the man he was supposed to dispise. But as Dream gently took the disks from Tommy’s hand, he thought that maybe, there was mercy in his heart for them after all.

The bitter smell was stronger here. Here, surrounded by heaps of unlit dynamite and exploded land. Tommy recalled what the land once looked like and sighed. This was his home. As much as he loved L’manburg, this was where he’d started. This Embassy meant so much to him, no matter what he told Wilbur. 

It was here, in the smoking remains of a place he once loved, did Tommy finally put down the face of bravery he’d forced in front of his army. Here, in his torn and sooty uniform, here with an arrow sticking out of his side, he looked much less like Tommy, the second in command of a great army, and more like Tom. Just Tom. A 16 year old boy who’d given up everything. 

He sighed. Breathing in the sour air, and breathing out the weight on his chest. It was time to let go of the past. Sure things under Dream had been fun, sometimes, but he would never truly be happy under that ruler. L’manburg has the potential to be so much more, which is why he’d refused to give up. Even when he knew they would lose from the beginning. It was time to tell the others. 

“Wilbur-“ he was cut off by bombarding questions. “Just listen to me, listen to me okay? I’ve secured our independence.” There was a heavy moment of silence. Tom bit his thumb nervously, scared to get told off for lying and joking at a time like this. Scared that Wilbur wouldn’t believe him. 

“What?!” Tom laughed in relief, his lungs filling and emptying with the bitter smell. Even after he knew that Wilbur would believe him, it strengthened. Perhaps it was fear of failure that fueled the smell. Because he had no idea what the future of L’manburg would bring, if there even was a future to be brought, and Tom had put everything on the line to ensure that there would be. “How?”

“I gave him the discs, Wilbur!” His prized possessions in the hands of a tyrant. It was poetic, almost. The way that the discs were both the beginning and end of the sequence of events. But there was a pang in his chest at the thought of the only things he cared about in the grasp of a nation that they’d fought so hard to emancipate from.

“Your disks?” For once, the great General Soot was at loss for words. Tom grinned. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He thought of the generations after this, the ones who would learn about him and speak of his heroic deed in awe. Perhaps a statue in his honor to survive for decades to come? But it was more than that. The thought of children growing up without knowledge of the tyrant Dream, or thinking no more of him than a storybook villain. It set fire to his lungs.

“Yes, Will,” Tom had sighed, rubbing his forehead between his eyebrows. “Cat and Melohi are in the grasp of a Tyrant, but we are free.” Tommy had learned from the best to fight with his words and not with weapons, and so he had. He’d given Dream what he wanted, and gotten something so much more valuable in return. The hope for a better future. Freedom. But as he stared at the smoking remains of his Embassy, and felt the hole in his heart at the thought of his disks, he couldn’t help feeling selfishly...Bittersweet.


	6. BOILING TEARS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sapnap is lonely, confused, and burning tear tracks into his face. Karl and Quackity are gone off to XD knows and Dream is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Sapnap felt numb. The warmth that he’d been born with, the warmth that was always settled into the pores of his bone marrow, had seeped out of him. One betrayal after the other. He curled into himself, hugging his arms to his chest and shivering. He was cold. The coldest he’d ever been, and the midday sun was beating down on his skin.

He’d never been cold before. The lava that coursed through his veins and heated his fingertips had always warmed him from the inside, created a shield from plummeting temperatures and enveloped everyone around him in a warming hug. He supposed even that natural, uncontrollable trait hadn’t been enough to make people stay.

But it felt as though the lava had bled out of him in the form of tears. It was seventy-five degrees outside as he sat balled up on the Prime Path, and his body wracked with shivers, his head throbbing and eyes swollen partially shut. 

His back rested against a dark oak door, the very dark oak door where he’d first met one of his fiances. Bamboo rustled in the wind and the occasional sound of a spitting llamas soothed him to relax. Just the smell of Karl’s past residence; a mixture of wood, wool and floral dye; both prompted him to relax and welled more tears down his cheeks.

Where was he? Karl had been missing for three days. Quackity had stormed off to XD knows where (The last he’d heard of the hybrid was from Sam, who claimed that Quackity had come to him with a confidential proposal. What little else Sapnap had been able to wrangle out of the warden indicated something about a casino, which worried him to no end.) Dream was in prison and George had already said goodbye for the night, which meant he wouldn’t be seen for about two or three weeks, and so Sapnap was completely and utterly alone. And so very cold. 

He raked his fingers through his hair, which was still a complete mess from the same action being performed far too many times throughout the last few days to be healthy for his hairline. The white bandanna that had been pressed against his forehead threaded around his wrist. Sapnap ran his fingertip over the bright purple stain that had been folded out of sight, memory lighting aflame and warming his body with a better time. 

A time of picking flowers, and grinding stems into bright dies. Heating stone with his hands, and Karl’s kaleidoscope eyes tracking his every movement in awe, gaze burning hotter than the magma in his bones. A time of fumbling fingers and eyes and lips and messy feelings slowly working themselves into knotted ropes of love. A time of fluttering wings, burning completions and picnics under the setting sun. The first time in his entire life that his heritage had been accepted, his hands had been held without the fear of being burned, his tears had been wiped away despite their boiling temperature before they could burn and scar his cheeks.   
A time, the first time, when he had been accepted unconditionally and so completely that he felt as if he had been reborn.

No one was there to wipe away his tears now, not as they scored blisters across his cheekbones and the back of his hands, and certainly not as they began to mix with blood. People would know. The evidence would be paraded for days. But would anyone be there to care anyway?

Sapnap had lost his best friend to prison. But he had begun to second guess if he ever had a best friend to begin with. Dream deserved to be in prison, he had done things that Sapnap could hardly comprehend with a vague explanation. He deserved punishment, and nothing as merciful as death. With the way Dream had talked to Sapnap the last time they’d spoken, he had no issue letting him rot in his cell.

Karl had been hiding things from him, leaving for days on end and arriving back exhausted, confused, stumbling along the prime path drained of color and sparing nothing more for the blaze spawn than a slightly confused, hesitant smile.

Quackity usually worked through his issues privately and came to him and Karl when he was in a desperate situation (a rare occasion) but he had recently lost his passion project and home to the hands of his arch enemy, which rung to Sapnap like a bit of a desperate situation. And yet, Quackity had gone MIA. 

Needless to say Sapnap was worried to the point where it was wearing down his joints. The fire behind his eyes had dimmed, boiling his tears over to perfection. Every one of his relationships was falling apart and he’d begun to wonder if it was worth staying around, or staying alive, in the first place.


End file.
